Rigorous Introspection (or "I'm Just Like Them...Sort Of." -- Kelly

During George W. Bush's presidency, I and others who share my political persuasion would be having a conversation about some political event or administration position. Sooner or later someone would pose some variation of the following question:

"How can someone who has

* lost a job while CEOs plundered
* found himself with no health insurance and ended up paying through the nose for private or "risk pool" insurance
* living on a fixed income and struggling with high cost of whatever
* been forced to work 2 or 3 part-time jobs with no benefits thanks to the corporate trend of eliminating full-time jobs.
* some combination of the above

possibly vote for Bush?"

During the last election cycle, we asked a variant of that question:  "How can someone whose life has been decimated by Republican policy even consider voting for McCain?"

Now I think I know the answer, and it isn't pretty.

During the year or so leading up to the election, I was a passionate constant consumer of political writing. I paid attention and spent countless hours informing myself.

But ever since the inauguration my consumption of such media has dropped by about 75%.

At first I thought I had political burnout or a simply too much on my plate, but now I'm investigating an unflattering possibility:

Could I be a blind follower, too?

I have little interest in following issues these days. I no longer read Huffington Post, Daily Kos, fivethirtyeight, or Wonkette three times a day. I no longer watch CNN during my time in the kitchen. I no longer read the newspaper regularly.

I am, according to this hypothesis, exactly like the individuals on the right I used to castigate.

So I want to ask for your help.

Will you let me know, in the comments, if you (as a conservative) are now consuming more political media or if you (as a liberal) are consuming less?

Please throw your virtual two cents' worth into the fray.

Cougar Barbie

This has nothing to do with writing, but it made me laugh really hard. Especially when she hit play on the boom box...



Don't Stop Believin', Barbie!

Writing--It's Not Rocket Science--Marcia

As I was brushing my teeth this morning, I was thinking of rocket scientist jokes. I'm sure there are some, but mostly people mention rocket scientists as an excuse, as in "Well, what did you expect, I'm not a rocket scientist!" or, "It's not like I'm a rocket scientist or something." We sometimes use the moniker when speaking of others who are waaaaay smarter than we'll ever be, "He's so smart he's like a rocket scientist," or "She's scary smart--rocket scientist smart." Most of us have no idea what this means, because we've never met any scientists, needless to say one that can engineer a projectile that shoots into space. When we use the term rocket scientist, we're mostly talking about math whizzes. We use this term as a way to forgive our own inability to calculate the sum of the square root. (See, I wrote that, but I have no idea what I'm talking about.)

My friend Greta's brother is a rocket scientist. He builds rockets for the Orbital Sciences Corporation of Virginia. He has friends who are astronauts. He spends his days dreaming up ways to better our lives by sending Taurus XL rockets and satellites into the atmosphere out into the black mystery of space, and in this case, to track carbon emissions that contribute to global warming. High minded stuff.

Years of effort and many millions of dollars went plunging into the sea off Antartica yesterday. John Brunschwyler's rocket failed--the rocket he christened with his beautiful, smart, discerning mother's name.

Greta and I talked on the phone yesterday. She is worried about her brother, the burden of responsibility he has as manager of the program. She wondered about the ramifications for all the people and the funding and for her brother's career . . . now that he has failed.

Failed? I asked. How many years did these people get to spend imagining, dreaming, designing, calculating, reaseaching, building, and striving? They were given an opportunity to reach new heights. It was always a gamble.

How many individuals are there that can even think on the level of these "geniuses"? We are lucky to have them reaching for the stars. I certainly couldn't.

I told her not to worry. Her brother's reputation was safe on the West Coast, we are more worried about what Penelope Cruz wore on the Red Carpet then what might have fallen into the Red Sea. (There is no mention of this cataclysmic failure in today's Mail Tribune.)

Then she tells me, incidentally, that seven of his other rockets succeeded. He has seven rockets?! Seven out of eight made it into "Outer Space"! That's a 90% success rate! Worse comes to worse he can go back to the rocket scientist trenches and tinker around with circuit boards or something. (?) It's not like there are a bunch or rocket scientists on Skid Row.

What if he had never tried? It takes guts to apply your skill to something and see if you can make it fly. Yes, his rocket failed. At least he had the courage to turn his ideas into reality. The busted up bits of his mistakes have to be hauled off on flatbeds. My own ideas rarely make it on to paper. They don't even have to be hauled to the curb on Tuesday.

I challenge all of us to fail on such a grand scale. To try so hard, to dream so big, that when it all comes crashing down there's damage, there's a crater, there's a new lake with our own name on it. Be brave Imagineers. What's the worst that could happen? Remember, seven made it.

Part 2: Fact is stranger than fiction--Kerry

Okay so if you really want the whole sordid scoop, here's the basics:

My father Jim and his brother, John ran a grain/fertilizer mill in McMinnville that my grandpa Harry started in 1919. My Dad played the violin and made pets out of animals on the farm, my uncle John shot squirrels and drank whiskey. They fought violently with each other even as children. A third son, older son named Richard mediated the fights until he was killed at aged fifteen as he was delivering the morning paper on a bike and struck by a car. He died on the kitchen table in front of the family. Profound grief still envelopes my father over his death, the one person who probably could have prevented the drama of the next fifty years unfolding as it did.

My grandfather was a class-one miser amidst his millions, his one indulgence, besides his grandchildren, was an occasional black cadillac that he drove around with various tools and garbage that shifted from one side to the other when he rounded corners. When he died, he gave me my grandmother's diamond ring, bequeathed the eight grandchildren $10,000 each, and gave the whole mill operation to my uncle, writing my father completely out of the will because he thought the "older brother" should be the appropriate heir. A month before his death he expressed remorse but was too weak to rewrite the estate and heavily manipulated by my uncle.

My aunt Shirley, married to my uncle John, was a 1950's beauty queen raised in an impoverished household who married my uncle for his money, among other things. Both my uncle and aunt descended into rampant, but somehow functional, alcoholism. My aunt bought a new Lincoln every year changing only to Lexus in the last decade. She parked the cars on a carpet in the garage so she could step out onto the carpet. She was a compulsive neat freak. The whole house was white/neutral colors and since she favored her two daughters over her son, she stuck him in the unfinished basement, where he would get so mad at his mother that he would sneak upstairs and pee on the aforementioned carpet.

John started having affairs and would charge hotel rooms bills to the mill expense account until the accountant starting yelling one day in front of the whole office staff:
"I'm tired of paying for John's "f------".

You beginning to get a feel for the cast of characters?

As adults Jim and John continued to disagree on most operations of the mill, so the one thing they could agree upon was to split it down the middle, 50/50. My father took the grain mill and the land on one side of town, John took the fertilizer plant in the other side of town. My Dad planted a vineyard twenty miles away and tried to escape my uncles increasingly illicit behavior.

Then an arsonist, who had burned down the country club, the high school football stadium and twenty-three local garages and outbuildings, decided to apply for a job at the grain mill after serving prison time. My father gave him a chance and hired him to sweep and clean the mill. The man started a fire in garbage can a week later so my Dad let him go. A few months later the man returned and burned down the mill, followed by two more mills in the downtown complex. Before the arsonist was caught, my parents and I were on sheriff survelliance with tapped phones and I was not allowed to walk or be alone without supervision after continued anonymous threats by the arsonist, until he was finally caught trying to light the downtown Thrifty-drug and fire and confessed to the whole thing in a plea bargain attempt.

To make a long story short, during these events my uncle quietly skimmed money off the top of the profits and carefully destroyed financial records. The statue of limitations had long since run out on anyone's ability to sue.

When he died ten years ago, his widow was left with hundreds of acres of farmland and the aforementioned money. She died last week of leukemia estranged from her son with the acreage and money still intact.

Even though my father never saw his rightful inheritance, he did retire at 54 after he sold his one remaining mill and has lived managed to survive and thrive, while his brother has been gone for ten years. There has been some vindication, at least.

Maybe, Maybe Not -- Kerry

My aunt died Friday. She was worth four million dollars, most of which her husband embezzled from my father, his brother, in a complicated ponzi scheme worthy of Hollywood. She wrote her son and all family inheritors out of her will except her two daughters. The details are too vast to encompass in these short spaces. Let's just summarize it with this: someday that money would have been, at least partially, mine.
Would it have changed my deepest desires to be a writer, or a mother who is present for my children, or start an organic farm?
Maybe, maybe not.
Once again the crazy drama in my life is like a cast of characters from Falcon Crest meets Dallas with my aunt in her starring role as Cruella Deville. The two girl cousins who are inheriting all of the money are too cheap to pay for the funeral at the country club, where my aunt was an institution, and instead are having a paltry lunch at the local deli. This would have horrified my socialite Aunt and is the only bit of hilarity I can find in the situation.
I ponder this incongruous ending at the deli to a fifty-year old family drama.
"A happiness that is sought for ourselves alone can never be found...True happiness is found in unselfish love, a love that increases in proportion as it is shared," wrote author M.J. Ryan.
I am trying to believe this.

From the Zoo to the Nines -- Jennie

“You don’t like animals, that’s why you’re not having a good time,” my nine year-old daughter tells me at the Portland Zoo on Saturday.

“I do,” I argue. “I like… um… butterflies.”

Daney gives me The Look: Just because I like butterflies does not mean I like animals.

“And.. . ladybugs,” I add. “Yeah! Ladybugs! They’re unbothersome—helpful, even.”

Daney is unconvinced.

So, I'm not the World Wildlife Fund's Member of the Year. (For totally understandble reasons, see this.)

But animals are not why I’m sitting on a concrete step by an abandoned crocodile tank. Rather, it's a lack of them. The few creatures that are actually in their exhibits have their backs to us. There are two zebra bottoms and a monkey tail or two. There are no bats. There is one snake (one, not plural, according to the the misprinted map). Most of the paths lead to blocked-off construction zones. Strollers are jammed against the new baby elephant’s fence.

Then there’s the food—rubbery, costly, and with the slowest order-to-table-time in Oregon's history. We dump our sad strips of blistery pizza and opt for elephant ears, which brings my seven-year old vegetarian to tears.

It’s hot. I’m tired. We drove five hours to get here. There is nothing to see, nothing to eat, and I’m wishing I brought my laptop to get a few words further on my YA thriller while the rest of my family checks out the construction tape and crows.

Until a seventeen year-old girl in heels smacks me in the face with her toddler’s mylar ball, making me realize: there are incredible creatures here! The unpredictable and amazing homo sapien! What wonder! I’m suddenly enthralled by teen mom-overwhelmedious, zoo keeper anti-socialus, and grandpa out-of-breathious.

Get the camera! Grab the notepad!

After some observation, we leave for Todai, a seafood buffet where my brother is our server. Over the cracking of my crab legs, I listen to the customers at the next table: huge fans of miso soupious —and I chuckle at two big guys in sports hats: dessert-bar and ice cream greedious.

“I like animals! I love them,” I tell Daney later, lounging on the pillowy bed at the sleek new Nines hotel.

There’s even more to study here: customer service put-outious, socialite tweenius, happy-hour/hair-frostedius.

“Mommy, you’re crazy!” Daney says.

I raise my eyebrows up and down. “Mommy: sleep-deprivedious, hoping for publicationus.”

Daney tosses a blue and brown pillow at me.

I catch it and tell her, “Let’s check out the animals in the fitness center!”

Busted -- Kelly

One of my deep writerly fears has been realized.

Someone, mentioned during my period of blogging anonymity, has expressed dissatisfaction with his or her portrayal.

During those years, the blog was a protected outlet. When I joined Lithia Writers Collective I needed to link my name to my personal blog for administrative reasons. I thought I'd "scrubbed" any significant identifying references to others; apparently I did not.

I haven’t told many of the stories I hold inside for exactly this reason. I’m not skilled at “fictionalizing” things. Something to work on, I suppose. It’s times like these when I sorely miss a weekly, in-person, critique group.

I know the LWC women could kick my butt right over this hump.

Initial responsibility for the words I write lies with me. But only I know my intentions. Final responsibility lies with those who read. While I never bought into Reader Response Criticism, all readers shape their interpretations through their own experiences.

I hope readers now and in the future will understand that I mean no one harm.

Reading Aloud to Children--Marcia

My ten year old has been doing sleep-overs since he was five. He was shocked to discover that none of these friends were "put to bed."

At two out of his top three sleep-over joints they watch TV until they pass out. At the third, they are told to climb in, clothes and all, and the lights are switched off.

So the discussion ensued. Daniel wanted to know if this was the usual routine. The answer--Pretty much.

I have been reading to my kids from the moment they arrived home from the hospital. I can remember being stretched out on a loveseat in front of the bay window, just days after coming home from the birthing center, with Daniel splodged out on my chest, reading him "Goodnight Moon."

Bedtime is one of the only times Mommy slows down, so we head in early. Jammies, tooth-brushing, running around screaming and batting each other with anything (favorites include leftover tubing from my mother's oxygen machine and the duster from the vacuum--how can they resist that bit of yellow fluff on the end of a wand?), there's usually some farting and jumping on beds and wrestling, then Mommy shouts and we all settle down and get cozy.

Each kid gets books and songs. For years the only song Daniel would let me sing was "Frere Jacque". Once in French, once in English. Anything else sent him into orbit, now "Frere Jacque" works like one of Pavlov's experiments. I can hum a few bars and clunk---he's punched out like a shopgirl's time clock.

The boys have been pushing bedtime out later, so reading time is shorter. Some nights, I don't get up to Daniel's bunk in time for stories. I thought this was okay, that it was time for him to read to himself, separate, grow up. But I was wrong.

As he is pushed in school to read for "AR points" the joy has been taken out of reading, it seems like a chore and a punishment. As he gets teased for being different (He sings, has my favorite girl Maia over every once-in-awhile, goes to the Craterian with his parents, has some girth on him, and is not allowed to hit or swear.) it is even more important that I climb up there with him and pull out some of the old favorites: Man Between The Towers, Piggie Pie, Tacky the Penguin, The Giving Tree, Harold and the Purple Crayon . . . As boy life gets harder, the familiar pictures and stories help him feel secure and loved.

We get home late last night from basketball practice. Hoops are interfering with bedtime for both kids. He knows he still has reading to do. He is calculating that there is not enough time for both reading and stories. I know he really wants the stories.

"You know, Mom, I am the only one of my friends that gets read to." Another thing he is teased about!

This is not a new conversation. He's been pondering this since that very first sleep over.

"I know, buddy, but most people do read to their kids . . . You can tell who gets story time, by how they think and speak . . . Not every kid uses words like delicious, velocity, momentum, and beautiful. You guys have vocabularies and imagination from all that time with books. That's just what we want for you."

Daniel's been needing an edge over his bone-headed friends lately. This answer seems to give him a glimmer. But, in truth, I don't know many people who read to their kids. I can only think of two.

But I know I'm on the right track, James came home from Kindergarten with a book about himself and his family as his Valentine to us. His favorite time of day? Bedtime. I think Daniel would say the same. So, I'll keep reading, keep singing, and falling asleep in the top bunk with my tennis shoes on.



PS. In a brief search on the benefits of reading aloud, I came across a site called Family Education. There, under a tab called "Mom's Coffee Break" I got some great laughs reading posts by "Max's Daddy," by Jess M. Ballier. Very, very funny, especially if you have rambunctious boys.

Knowing + Doing = Writing

Knowing and doing are two different verbs for a reason. One does not always follow the other.

I know I like how I feel when I write every day.

Doing it is another matter.

According to Martha Beck in a 2008 Oprah magazine (which I was reading when I could have been writing), human nature is predisposed to this knowing, this listening to our inner voice, and then perhaps not acting on it for a number of reasons. Mine reasons read like a melodramatic "women who do too much" self-help book, so I will spare you from them.

The good news about this inner struggle is that when I actually act on what I know, the joy of being in flow is pure bliss.

And it's that knowing that's worth doing.

Tense -- Jennie

My first book was the typical, never-gonna-get-published work. It was a solid first effort at a new hobby for me. After never have taken a creative writing class, I learned a lot while drafting this YA novel, particularly about about character and dialogue. Needless to say, the plot was severely linear. And the whole manuscript was written in one verb tense: the present.

For my second work, the characters were slightly more developed. Dialogue was a bit more important. And I expanded the present-tense plot by integrating some flashbacks, sprinkling "-ed" endings throughout.

I'm still learning.

This new piece I'm scrawling probes the consequences of human suffering. I'm keeping the motivation of my main character at the center of plot this time. I'm trying to return often to her thoughts, feelings, and reactions. I'm reminding myself to have her talk to the other characters with the same vernacular and tone in which she narrates to the reader. And in addition to using present- and past-tenses, I'm throwing in glimpses of the future.

Now, I'm wondering if I could have better polished my craft if I had just stuck with one tense all along. It's difficult to focus on character and dialogue when you're straddling three kinds of verbs. The whole thing makes me, well, tense.

The way I see it, though, is that for the next novel, I'll have to move on to character and dialogue. Because I've run out of verb tenses, right?

Maybe, unlike my fictional first character, I'll take a cyclic journey, winding up, where I started, only deeper, and in only one tense.

Things I'm Trying to Tell Myself Today -- Kelly

The laundry can wait.

People who talk endlessly about themselves despite social clues to stop are lonely and need our kindness.

Scrubby brown winter woods can be beautiful.

Wind is pleasant.

Mistakes are fine.

My daughter’s selfishness is not evidence of irrevocable spoiling.

I'll think of something to write someday.

My heart is not tired.

A new way to think about creativity...

No matter how you feel about Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love, her speech "A new way to think about creativity" at the 2009 TED conference is really, really interesting. A worthwhile way to spend 19 minutes. (Thanks Katie!)

In Search of Role Models--Marcia

The Australian Open just wrapped up. Temperatures were at an historic high. Andy Roddick, one of the last Americans standing, said, "Well, I did pretty well today, considering the weatherman was predicting death." He and a comer named Djokovich were the last to play with the roof open. There were riots among Serbs and Croats. Cypriots and other Greeks keep the grandstands lively with soccer chants and body paint, and there were always Australians in large numbers out on the grass drinking from beer steins the size of oil barrels.

During all of this Rafael Nadal played one of the most stunning matches of all time--and he's already played some of the most stunning matches of all time--that tells you how stunning it was. It was so spectacular that when it was time to leave for work, I seriously considered lettting us all call in sick. I had to peel myself away from the TV, but in a rare move I left it on, so I wouldn't have to try to find the channel when I came home later. As I shoved my key in the lock 3.5 hours later and walked in the door I heard an odd sound--the familiar pock, grunt, pock, grunt of two men smacking away at a little green ball. The thing is, coverage wasn't supposed to pick up for another hour . . . could it be . . . was the match from this morning--still? Yes.

A friend called. I rudely hung up on her. Then I called her during the commercial. We agreed at the next commercial I'd run up the block to her house, and we'd watch together. When I got home at the match's conclusion, there was a message from Sherrie the sandwich girl at the Deli to please call when I got in. I was sure my husband had finally had that heart attack.

When I called the line was busy, no doubt Mercy Flights.

I called my mother-in-law.

"Shirley is Dan Okay?"

"I think so, I just talked to Andy a minute ago."

Wouldn't my brother-in-law have told their mother that Dan had either amputated his fingertip chopping chicken, or been wheeled out on a gurney after all those years of steak, tots, Raisinets, and bacon ends? Hmmm. It's hard to say.

When someone finally picks up at the Deli, it's Sherrie.

"Sherrie, Oh My God, Is Dan alright?

She starts to laugh. HaHa. "Whatever you do, don't tell him the score."

It turns out they're all down there shaving turkey slices, making sandwiches, washing dishes and sweeping floors and watching another network's airing of this amazing tennis match.

Sherrie says, "So, tell me who wins."

"I'm not telling you who wins. That takes all the fun out of it. This is the match of the century."

"I have to leave before it's over." This from someone I'm sure has never watched a tennis match in her life!

"Maybe not," I say coyly, "Call me before you leave and I'll give you the score."

Rafael Nadal and Fernando Verdasco, two muy guapo young Spaniards played for 5.5 hours. They played until well past 1:00 a.m., in one of the most physically taxing, exciting, bravado- filled brawls I've ever had the pleasure to watch.

Rafa won by two points.

Commentators were beside themselves. Words like epic, historic, impossible, freak of nature were being bandied about. The truth was, it was an historic moment. The two freaks played the longest match in tournament history.

Shortly after, 92 seconds later, the sports casters immediatly began forecasting Rafa's demise at Roger Federer's hands in the final. There was no way Rafa was going to be able to come back, with less that a day's rest, restored, recovered and able to fight against The Great Roger Federer.


Everyone was simultaneously stoked and bummed at the same time. Yeah Rafa, poor Rafa . . . but yeah Roger.

Roger is the Australians' darling. They love him and make no bones about it.

Roger was to become a legend, equaling the record 14 Grand Slams of Pete Sampras' career. All of the legends of tennis, still alive, were present for what would inevitably be Roger's crowning as the new king. This was his chance to regain his #1 ranking, become the best player in tennis history, and prove that Rafa will never be able to win on "hard courts" like those at the US and Australian Opens.

It took almost five hours, but Rafa did it. Rafa won the Australian Open.

Then came the trophy ceremony. The director of Tennis Australia took the mic and announced that Australia loves Roger Federer and he is their favorite player. Well, if I'm Rafa, how am I supposed to take this? The crowd agreed, applausing wildly. The Legends were already lined up, ready to receive their initiate. Then Roger took the stand, and was handed his massive silver platter. He tried to speak. His voice cracked. He looked at the crowd, he heard their cheers, he saw Rod Laver, his own personal God, and his face cracked. The ice king, broke apart. It was shocking. The world stopped breathing. I thought his long time girlfriend Mirka, was going to both barf and jump over the grandstand wall to try and scoop him up.

After several attempts at controlling himself, the world could see that we were going to have to cut to commercial quickly, or get him off the mic. The director complimented him again for his grand contributions to the game of tennis, put his arms around him and asked if he'd like a break. Roger stepped down.

Then the world's #1 player, the first Spaniard ever to win the Australian was called to the stand and handed a keg-sized silver cup. This is the part where the champion usually raises the cup over his/her head, smiles as big as Austalia herself, and brings out the roar of the crowd. Rafa had certainly earned it. Instead, he tucked the trophy under his armpit, left the dias and went to put his arm around his rival. He put his head to Roger's head, his sweat-soaked mane shielding his eyes, he spoke privately to Roger, gave him a squeeze and then motioned for Federer to take the stand again. Roger did, but barely. He said his thanks, said it was "killing him," and left the rest of the ceremony to Rafa.

When Rafa took the stand again, it was still without the flourish and glory of most champions. He quietly looked to his friend and said, "Sorry for today, Roger, I know how you are feeling right now. But remember that you are one of the greatest champions from history and you will go on to improve the 14 (Sampras' record in Grand Slam titles)." He briefly held the trophy aloft, thanked everyone and went back to stand with Roger.

This to me was even more stunning and shocking than anything I'd seen so far.

Tears rained down my face. I was so glad my sons were watching. Already, by the age of 10, there are young athletes, kids, who think they are God's gifts to the world, because they are fast, or can hit a ball, or knock someone over in a football game. Here is one of the greatest athletes in the world, humble even during his crowning achievement. This is the kind of child I hope I can raise. One that can be good without also making others feel bad.

Rafa's coach, Uncle Tony, told him when he was young, "just because you can hit a tennis ball well doesn't mean you're better than anyone else." That was a lesson that seemed to have stuck. It's not what most Americans are teaching their children. I know this, because I've already been watching it for years at the sidelines of my son's baseball, basketball, hockey, and tennis games. We worship our athletes--teach them to be cocky, self-assured to the point of absurdity.

If this story appeared at all, it was all about Roger's tears. Few if any talked about Nadal and his great act of compassion, elegance, sacrafice, and sportsmanship at what surely was one of the greatest moments of his own life. To me, this was a story worth splashing across the cover of every magazine and newspaper.

How disappointed I was yesterday, when even Tennis magazine failed to acknowledge the greatness of this moment, this brand of champion. Tennis magazine did not feature a single photo of Rafa with his arm around his opponent anywhere in the magazine, needless to say on the cover. Nope. The cover featured Roger Federer swinging his classic backhand. There is not even one mention of Nadal, his "epic" matches, or his otherworldy sense of what it means to be a good sport. So perhaps this is a moment that was merely a blip on the world's radar, but, it was for me an astonishing, astounding, heart-wrenching and heartening glimpse at what it means to be a true champion and a great man.

Writing 1939/2009 -- Kerry

My grandfather bought a newspaper in Bemidgie, (pop. 800) Minnesota in 1939 and published it weekly with the help of my grandmother and one part-time assistant. He called in the debts for the back issues of deliveries. One farmer paid him with a pig. Another brought in pies. The depression was just ending, and they wanted him to keep the newspaper going.

My grandmother was the editor, reporter, obituary writer, columnist and advertising director. As an English major fresh from the University of Wisconsin, she relished the task.

To write the obituaries, she had to walk through the hardware store into the mortuary, where the body of the day was laid out only a few feet away from a display of garbage cans and hoses.

Her column themes revolved around the farming community and often resulted in inadvertent dilemmas.

"Fertile Woman Marries" (Fertile, Minnesota) was one of her headlines that sent my grandfather into orbit.

She would have been 100 years this year. I ponder the changes the in the writing world she never saw, like automatic typewriters, the web, blogging. Her writing environment and mine may be radically different, but the basis remains the same, trying to write something, anything amidst trips to the hardware store and occasional blooper blog headlines.

The End -- Jennie

My writing students are at that point in the term where we're working on conclusion. They have mastered introductions, theses, and the body of essays. Now we're tying it all together.

From years of teaching writing, I know this is tricky. But it's also important, I emphasize, because it's the impression that stays with the reader (or, in their cases, the grader).

But from editing thousands of papers, from reading magazines, and critiquing books, I've happened upon something interesting. There are only so many ways to end.

Honestly.

It seems pretty formulaic.

Take, for example, David Wroblewski's all-the-rage The Story of Edgar Sawtelle. This tale ends with a choice.

Laurie Halse Anderson's Chains? With a quote. Donna Tartt's The Secret History? A journey.

Here are a few other kinds of conclusions I've found: imagery; a summary or revisitation; a question, a lesson, or what the future might bring; hope; a call-to-action. Lots of conclusions fit into more than one category. On Thursday, we found the last sentence of a short story that used five.

Me, I seem stuck in the same kind of conclusion: a peek into the future through imagery.

I might try something for else for my next book, if I ever write another. Because my problem isn't wrapping it up. Like Eve Porinchak, it's how to begin.

(Wah Hoo! My first link!!!)

Concept Writer -- Julie

I figured the occasional Saturday blog was just my speed. Surely I could conjure up some solid writing every few weeks to share with the Lithia Writers and Readers. What I have in reality conjured up are half-baked ideas expressed in barely coherent word scraps littering my lesson plan book. An idea will pop into my head when I'm in the middle of deciding when to schedule that spelling test; I'll capture it in a rush and then a few lame faltering words later – crickets. I lose steam. I'm like a half-rate concept artist. There is a tolerably interesting idea, but there is no craft in the expression of it. You need me to put my money where my mouth is, you say? So where are these tolerably interesting ideas, you ask? Let's go. You and me.

Blog Idea #1 “As Seen”
A post written from the perspective of an alert television viewer who thinks she saw the elderly woman from the LifeAlert commercial on the commerical for PastaNMore as well, and is concerned that her LifeAlert necklace has given her a false sense of security. Several other As-Seen-On-TV commercials would be woven in, including but not limited to: the HyrdoGlobe plant watering system, the SwivelEase vacuum, the CleverClasp necklace putter-onner, and the LateralThighTrainer.

Blog Idea #2 “The Other Shoe”
This would open with a brief description of a morning I had recently that resembled the opening scene of a movie, establishing that the main character has a perfect life, moments before everything goes awry, vis-a-vis a murder, a kidnapping, a cataclysmic natural disaster or a terminal diagnosis. This sunny morning my son was practicing for his oral report on Paul McCarney when I said goodbye, and he said “I love you Mom!” in his best Liverpool accent, then my husband showed up in my classroom with coffee and a rice crispy chew for me, and in the middle of class one of my students blurted out, “Ms. Inada, this is my favorite class!” I would go on to say, in this blog, how days like this leave me feeling anxious, like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, and that sometimes the other shoe is simply a creeping pessimism that slides in unannounced, mucking up your montage. But then I would need to address the fact that I don't really understand what is meant by 'waiting for the other shoe to drop' – it implies that one shoe has already dropped, and is that first shoe-drop something good, or simply the first of two bits of bad news? You see why I couldn't follow through.

Blog Idea #3 “The Inadas Turn Down the Heat”
This post would begin by explaining that I have always maintained near tropical levels of heat in my house, day and night, with hilarious descriptions of it – “wall of heat” “company gasping for air upon entering,” very good stuff. I would go on to reveal that my son and I, inspired by a December '07 issue of National Geographic for Kids, decided to turn down the heat to 64, day and night. We had read the issue a year ago, same article, but it was only now, when I felt sure that my president had also adjusted the heat in the White House, that I felt compelled to do it. I was confident that if Obama got chilly, he would simply get a sweater – likely a nice striped Gap number. A year ago I was equally confident that if W got chilly, he was cranking the heat to 73 and parading around in a 'Don't Mess with Texas' wife beater. But then I wondered whether it was okay to use the term 'wife beater', if readers would know what I meant, or if they would be offended. And when I start thinking about whether or not I'm going to offend someone, it's pretty much all over.

Okay, so you enjoy your lengthy blog posts, meandering along beautifully and then coming to a sweet insight; I'll just be here with my little concepts. See you some other Saturday!

Dropped Stiches -- Kelly

This is supposed to the post in which I wax rhapsodic on the joys of knitting. I’m supposed to tell you that nothing has ever brought me out of my head and into the moment like the hypnotic rhythm of looping and pulling. I’m supposed to tell you how I’ve abandoned my perfectionism, my inner critic, and learned to love each stitch, even the dropped ones.

That was all true.

For a bit.

I spent several days knitting and unraveling. Knitting and unraveling. Knitting and unraveling.

Binding off.

Gathering courage to purl, and discovering it wasn’t difficult at all.

Unraveling.

Starting again.

Unraveling.

I completed two little rectangles my daughter called “knitties” and took to bed each night.

I was totally relaxed. Peaceful and Mindful.

Then I noticed I was actually producing something and that it actually looked like knitting done by a knitter.

So I choked.

The minute my project began to have the potential to become a scarf, a sweater, a doll blanket, the minute the process disappeared, the joy went away.

I began to tense, to worry that I would make a mistake many rows into the project, a mistake so egregious I would have to abandon the entire thing, beautiful yarn and all.

This is, of course, pertinent to both meditation and writing.

Today I had a long talk, about knitting and writing, with a wise young woman. She posed a wonderful question.

“Have you ever set out to fail?” she asked.

“Well, I knew when I started knitting that I would make mistakes. Other than that, honestly, I’ve never done it consciously but unconsciously is another story altogether.”

And there you have it: fear of failure and fear of success in a nutshell.

I resolve today no longer to fear either with my writing.

I resolve today to be gentle with myself.

I resolve today to write to explore rather than to control.

For that last, we have editors.

Reason # 56728 why I can't write today--Marcia

When someone calls and says, I'm coming over tomorrow to clean your house, you don't say no. Especially when he is the Universe's answer to your call.



The funny thing about that call, is you have no control over when and how it is answered.



My answer came in my burly builder with a leaf blower.



I came home from James' first piano lesson to Otis Redding blasting on the stereo and Richie waving a leaf blower over the now empty rooms of my home. He plunked every piece of furniture, all the baskets of toys, and piles of laundry out on the patio.



Even more miraculous my truculent ten year-old was using a shop Vac on a carpet hung over the fence in the side yard. Richie wreaks havoc, but it's good havoc.



He had no idea that the women of my neighborhood had decided that my house was too unsanitary for the Princess Ariane, now seven months preggers, to stay in this weekend. No idea that this kind of thinking drains me of every ounce of energy.



Richie was able to accomplish the impossible, he had every member of my family up and at it. Floors were mopped, surfaces wiped, clutter put away, animals cordoned off, children disciplined and everything smelled like oranges.



It astonishes me when the Universe sweeps in and makes my wishes come true. I don't always understand why good things like this happen. But I know how to be grateful. I truly am.



It is nice to have a slime-free abode. It's nice to hear from the Imperial Empress, the Higher Power, I can't wait for the Princess to arrive.

Writer Incarnate -- Kerry

An 89 year-old man in a tight blue speedo swam with carefully placed arms and long, graceful flutter kicks in the Master's swimming meet last weekend. After four lengths in the 100 freestyle event, he touched the wall as the timers hovered over the edge.

As his head came out of the water and his arm went in the air with a thumbs-up victory sign, the packed crowd in the bleachers by the steamy pool erupted into wild applause.

And then the room became eerily silent as a tiny 87 year-old woman with a hunched back emerged from the bleachers and walked slowly to the starting blocks to compete against people twenty years younger. She slid gently into the water. Five other swimmers towered above her on starting blocks. The gun went off and she glided off the wall with a beautiful strong stroke, keeping her own time, as the other five swimmers flew into the churning water and passed her.

The crowd began cheering wildly again, "Elsie. Elsie. Elsie." She finished a 100 i.m., which is a length of butterfly, a length of backstroke and a length of breaststroke, followed by a final length of freestyle, performing a breathtaking show. She touched the wall at the finish and the crowd went wild again. She didn't even break a smile as she emerged from the pool, instead she just sort of saluted the stands and shuffled away.

I wondered how many times she'd had to start over working at this craft of swimming. Like Marcia's metaphor for writing and her son's ice hockey experiences and Jennie's expository on the different stages of growth in a writing life, perhaps that is what this writing game is all about: reinvention and reincarnation.

Not to mention a little bit of tenacity and maybe a bit of orneriness.

Out From Under? -- Jennie

I don’t think my problem is plot. I have a million ideas for stories, a million ways to begin and end them, a million conflicts and resolutions.

It’s everything else that kills me: picking that perfect word to convey meaning, creating well-crafted characters who are deep and fully developed, who are relatable but also unique. And scripting rich dialogue between these characters, dialogue that shows the conflicts and resolutions without my telling it.

It’s setting, too—slowing down the action, so the reader can see the scene: letting the rivers rage, and the owls call, and the carcass of a cat sink slowly into the dirt.

Once Christy told me that the first three books go under the bed. This means that it takes writing a few novels before actually publishing one. Since Christy’s so clever (she published her first), I told her I’d give her my plot—all of my plots--and she could work her word choice, dialogue magic, etc., etc.

She chuckled.

So I’ve had to apply all these tedious little things to my plot by myself.

It’s been interesting.

Wherever I go (the mall in Eugene, a museum in San Francisco, my classroom on a test day), I’ve found myself studying people, and I’ve listened to what those people say to each other. I’ve taken long walks to hear the crack of ice under my feet, to the sound of sticky tires on pavement, and to the air trapped under a pigeon’s wings as it took flight above a bridge.

I breathed in hay after a rain.

I’m reading Poe before bedtime, and scaring myself silly.

I’m crying over loss.

In essence, my senses have become heightened, and I’m trying to transcribe that in my writing. This book, in turn, has slowed down. It won’t be tied up in the two months in which I usually complete a manuscript.

It has grown up; hopefully enough this time, to stay out from under the bed.